


Roll Call

by pukeytyler (cherryblur)



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Derogatory Language, M/M, Self-Hatred, Tourette's Syndrome, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 16:39:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18098120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryblur/pseuds/pukeytyler
Summary: So many thoughts running through his head.





	Roll Call

**Author's Note:**

> please do not read if you are offended by the derogatory language in this fic

“It’s easy to say you’re disabled, isn’t it?” 

Yeah. It is. 

For Tyler, it’s easier to say he’s a retard, that he’s fucked in his stupid little head because he probably couldn’t make the sentence worthwhile anyways. 

He wants to say _”No, I have Tourette’s, but I’m just the same as you with a few quirks,”_ but it probably comes out as a shriek and a jerk of his stupid head. 

Even if people talk to him real loud in that slow, special voice that pisses him off he’ll probably shout some nonsense in between words and then smack his chest over the bruises already formed there. (On purpose.) 

He doesn’t want to be talked to like a four year old. 

They always point. They always try to record him, slyly with eyes quietly flicking upon the boy who won’t stop twitching on the bus.  
He’ll just scream about singing to the birds and then his leg will kick out uncontrollably. 

Interviewers try to skim over it when asking them questions, but they always end up having a one sided conversation with Josh. They act like he doesn’t even exist sometimes.  
The fans love him, only because he can sing. 

They always have those concerned looks stapled onto their faces when he’s releasing his feelings onstage, limbs tensing and voice shouting out lyrics he wrote alone.  
He’s never had a verbal tic stop him mid-song. 

It’s too easy to let it go and allow anything and everything to have a mind of its own. Sometimes he ends up in the hospital afterwards. 

Tic attacks, they’re called. Usually supposed to be accidents but Tyler likes to use them in situations that he doesn’t want to be in. (Interviews. Parties. Family gatherings.)  
It’s not that they’re voluntary, no, but every once in a while he’ll forget to take his pills and Josh always finds out.

He’ll twitch and shake and freeze until he’s a writhing mess on the floor and someone is dialing the ambulance.  
The nurses have already caught on and scold him constantly. He doesn’t care. 

Josh helps sometimes. When they’re not touring he’ll stay with him, card his steady fingers through tangled hair and tell him he’s perfect. 

While on tour, they share bunks. Sometimes.  
Tyler has terrors that cause him to thrash and it’s unpleasant when an alarm set much too early is ruined by an even earlier attack caused by invisible demons. Plus he just can’t sit the fuck still. 

Josh pretends he’s not bothered but the bags under his eyes tell many different stories. 

It’s okay. 

It’s okay when they call him retarded. They make it a weird disorder that feels like they can’t have a decent conversation with him without thick, queasy tension settling in the pits of their stomachs. 

He’ll just think about his fingers thrumming a million miles a minute against his the knee of his jeans and then sneeze without warning. 

They’re not even unnerving. His tics are simple. His hand will beat against his chest, his head will jerk to the side and he’ll snuffle like a dog in the middle of his sentences.  
His verbal tics have no order. 

He laughs sometimes, when they don’t understand and he gets so flustered he’s moving and speaking without any sort of rhythm or sense.  
_Fucking stupid_ , his brain will run through in his steady head voice. 

It angers him too. 

He’ll smack his limbs, shake his head and try to spit out even a simple few words, and when even that won’t come out, Josh will take him away and repeat his usual apology. 

Then he’ll wrap his finicky little hands in their braces so he can stop hurting himself when he bangs the heels of his palms against his body involuntarily. 

They’re strong. Plastic with soft cotton on the inside to keep him steady and restrain his dumb fingers from poking himself in the ribs. He feels like those elementary kids with fucked up limbs in wheelchairs he used to see in his class. 

Because you know, he was in THAT class.  
No one wants a screaming, flailing five year old in their kindergarten class when they could have sweet, perfect kids with rosy cheeks and hands that don’t punch themselves. 

Tyler never minded as a child. 

He just hates it more as an adult.  
He used to think he was cool, because he could run around and say whatever he wanted because no one would know if it was a tic or a real sentence. 

It’s not that he shouldn’t feel proud that he’s alive, that his mom didn’t get rid of him when she had the chance and instead kept her _special little boy_. 

He doesn’t feel famous, that’s for sure. He’s only known as the _Tourette’s singer_.  
No one ever asks about what he thinks, only what’s wrong with him. 

He feels famous for his _disorder_.  
He feels famous for being the retard that they call him.  
Everyone lies to his face and tells him he’s so talented, that he’s truly gifted and that nothing should ever stop him from fulfilling his dreams. 

That’s the first time he’s ever laughed in someone’s face without a tic interrupting. 

He’s written these beautiful melodies, these intricate lines that he tries so desperately to express onstage, and all he gets is pity applause and a gentle hand on his back because he’s the _special_ part of the act.

Once a venue tried to provide him with an AID, as if he couldn’t do normal activities by himself. He had an attack out of anger and they were forced to cancel the show. Josh was the one scolding him that time.  
Josh never sugar coats anything. It’s good.

Tyler stayed on his back all night, body twitching and tensing until he cramped and asked Josh in his quiet voice if he could wear his braces to sleep in.

It was all pity looks and gingerly soft kisses that night. (Who would ever want to get accidentally smacked in the mouth anyways?)

He talks. He really does. When he’s at home, he can speak sentences and only have that little stutter that follows him everywhere. Josh is the only one who knows.  
But it’s okay.

It’s always okay when you’ve got someone else speaking for you.

Tyler doesn’t want to be normal. He wants to be accepted. He wants them to stop staring. He wants to stop hitting his chest and almost hurting others with his unpredictable movements. 

One day he won’t care and Josh will finally kiss him without pity in his eyes. 

He counts down the days sometimes in between the thoughts constantly running through his brain.


End file.
